


Men Like Us

by Kierkegarden



Category: 19th Century Occultism, Historical Occultist RPF, Historical RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: 19th Century, Anal Sex, Bondage, Demon Summoning, M/M, Occult, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Magic, Spiritual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 06:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11142873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: 19th Century Occultists Aleister Crowley and George Cecil Jones consummate a Sex Rite. There is no plot here whatsoever, just Occultists getting freaky for their own twisted purposes.





	Men Like Us

**Author's Note:**

> George Cecil Jones was commonly called Cecil, hence why I have referred to him as such. I chose to call Crowley "Aleister" because it would just be silly to call him Edward.
> 
> I openly have no idea how 19th century Occultists actually performed Sex Magick, beyond what I've read of Crowley's. This is loosely based off of his writings. 
> 
> Historically, the pair were accused of engaging in homosexual activities. Crowley liked the attention and did not deny his actions and Jones sued for libel. I hope if the ghost of Mr. Crowley sees this, he is devilishly delighted.

“Oh come now, Cecil, as if you haven’t dreamed for nights of the energy men like us could create together.” He has busied himself lighting the candles but can’t resist talking anyway, if only to hear his own voice instead of Cecil’s strained breathing.

 

Aleister has him hogtied like a maid to the table, legs forced apart with a broomstick handle, up and over his head, tied at his wrists. Trust the monster to plan the Rite like this, to fuck like this, in this vile way, in the name of everything. He can feel his legs bruising and his arms dying beneath him. A faint, tingling sensation that Aleister insists would prime him for possession.

“This is why they rejected you in the Golden Dawn. It isn’t right. And if it gets out, I couldn’t imagine.” He gasps as Aleister’s gloved hand curves around his buttock, giving it a light squeeze. 

 

“And yet you subjected yourself to it. Ever willingly, I might add. My, how we are so willing to bend our morals for magick. It’s what makes us different.”

 

Every bone in Cecil’s body aches in pain and for Aleister. He’s trembling now in the dim candle light. Aleister’s pipe is loaded with rich brown hashish. He draws the sweet smoke into his lungs as it exits Aleister’s lips. Cecil is laughing.

 

“My dear friend and quick learner, I taught you that.”

 

Aleister shrugs, “And the Student becomes the Master.”

 

“Next time, I’ll tie you down and you won’t be so smug.”

 

But Aleister’s tongue flicks over his teeth like a feline in heat and he purrs, “You know I’d enjoy it.”

 

Cecil would damn him but he is already damned.

 

Pacing over him, a dark figure, outlined by a faint new moon glow from the open window, Aleister begins the Rite. Reading from a makeshift grimoire of his own working, whispering and shouting, every move intentional, every sound alluring. He breathes in the smoky air, satisfied. The first candle goes out. A gust of wind to the profane, but Cecil senses it, attunes to it.

 

Aleister’s face contorts over him as he breaths the hashish directly into Cecil’s mouth. Clumsily, choking the poison into his lungs, he strains for breath. This is more difficult than it looks, lying down, back against the cool, hard table. He shivers. Aleister chants in tongues, looming over him like a shadow. Cecil becomes more than aware of his own hardness growing against his stomach. A light breeze comes through the window and the second candle flickers, then goes out.

 

The song increases both in volume and in speed. The words blend together and all Cecil can see is an ever-darkening demon in front of him, shifting, growing. His eyes glaze over and he knows it approaches. Aleister is removing the deep crimson robe that occulted his skin. Now visible, he shines pale and haunting. He rubs a sweet scented oil across his belly and down, coating his shaft in its slick perfumed sheen. Cecil feels each word that he utters pulse beneath his skin. The third candle goes out.

 

The figure looms over him. Perhaps it once was Aleister, a century or more across astral space, in a different plane. It is now but a white ethereal blur. Still, it enters him slowly, with the tenderness of a lover. Cecil feels his back lurch further forward and his ankles pressing painfully against the bond. But,  _ God _ , he is filled with energy. Goosebumps cover his body and his skin wells with sensation. It reaches back and thrusts into him again, the great god Pan evoked in terrifying might. It’s speed quickens and Cecil cries out, echoing the bonds of the rite into the cool night air. And the final candle is extinguished.

 

When the Rite is over and his fluids are collected and bottled, the essence of the great and mystical egregor entrapped within, Cecil wonders how his body could come to exist at a time and place with Aleister’s. What providence that, in an ever-sprawling timeline, two men such as themselves could come together and meet, become friends and lovers. 

 

It’s proof enough that there is a world outside of his own, of Aleister’s own, a world of incredible and intentional design that they could find and access and master. A world where it isn’t wrong or impure to breath the same breath and burn the same fire.

 

And Cecil smiles that it happened this way, just so, as he lights a candle and bids Aleister goodnight.


End file.
